take me home

Walking through the fog, the moist air, I feel as though sadness could take me back:

A long train of memories,

feelings,

connected to places where I knew love,

As if following the pain long enough will lead me back home.

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Cake

Nothing tastes good when eaten alone.
Tea is weak. Salt impotent. Cream is like water.
Cake isn't sweet anymore.
Just something that, once, was nice.


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hold me together

Something that will hold me together. Something.
Anything.

String to tie me up.
Stiches to close the wounds.

Bring the frayed edges together again, reweave my worn down garments,
Fill in the deep hollows,
Replace the stale sighs with fresh breath, the rancid love with new affection.
Clean faces to gaze on, no scars, no raging blemishes, no stinging acne.

A happy hand. A real smile. Teach me to live again.
----------------------------

How to be honest without being trite? To speak of sadness without self-pity. That's what I want.


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respected

Sun won't set until August.
I wanna live there. Sunlight pouring into my bedroom, all day, all night.
Plants growing green, warmth on my face, from something else than a blow.
He doesn't hit me but I feel deep bruises nonetheless.
If only your body punished me and not your words,
I could honour my own suffering.
----------------
This is by no means to say I wish to be physically abused, but rather that emotional abuse isn't taken as seriously, although it is still a form of violence.

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your legacy

You used to lay your head on my chest.
I'd kiss the top of your head, hoping to silence the stream of
worries pouring out your mouth,
to instead find the love that once eased my grumbling heart, so in need of sustenance.

But you ignorned me for the sound of your own voice.

And I ate your self-absorption, for fear of starving.

-----

slightly less messy than originally.


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do a lot of work.




Shared with me via facebook. Here's to a copious amount of blogging, to lessen the gap.



passed

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I could spent hours here
My mind needs wringing,
Soaked with juices of unrest and stale bordem
squeezing it out leaves a mess
A bad smell, blotted ideas and wrinkled bits of paper
Once wisdom, now unlegible.
My fingers soon grow tired
My eyes strain to stay open
But there is work to do,
And only minutes have passed.